


Corruptio Optimi

by PengyChan



Category: Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 14:37:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/724408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PengyChan/pseuds/PengyChan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quercus Alba, Manfred von Karma and Damon Gant were all cold, calculating and selfish individuals. But each of them had had something in their lives that had mattered and that had nothing to do with power, perfection or control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first part of a three chaptered fic, each chapter focusing on one character - Quercus Alba, Manfred von Karma and Damon Gant respectively. Out of all interesting characters I've met in the games I've played so far, these three got a fair share of my attention. Guess I have a thing for old evil men since it's so much fun trying to come up with a backstory for them.  
> I already posted it elsewhere, but I figured out that starting to post some more on this account wouldn't hurt.
> 
> ***
> 
> "Corruptio Optimi Pessima" (the corruption of the best is the worst of all) - Gregorius Magnus.

The vase, containing several beautiful passionflowers just about to fully bloom, was placed carefully beneath the window in the only spot in the cell where sunlight could pour directly onto for several hours each day. In the previous cell Alba had been into barely a few sunrays managed to get inside for no more than half an hour a day – too little for flowers to survive.

Quercus Alba had been a powerful man, first a general and war hero and then an ambassador; he had been the all-powerful, untouchable mind behind a smuggling ring that had lasted for decades and brought more than one country's economy to its knees. Fist on the battlefield and then in the rooms of power, his influence had reduced many men into nothing but puppets with him as the puppet master. Now he was just an old, finished man who felt all the weight of his years for the first time and could only wait for his death sentence to be carried out – still, he had managed to retain at least some scraps of his old authority, just enough to obtain a different cell… one with enough sunlight for him to nurture his flowers.

Or at least that was what he wanted to think. After all, it was more than likely that it had actually been Colias Palaeno to press for him to have that cell, like it had been him to have his flowers delivered to him from the embassy. But the thought of owing anything to that pathetic fool never failed to make him grimace, so he would simply ignore that possibility and focus on taking care of his flowers for the last days he had left.

A wrinkled hand touched the petals lightly, almost tentatively, and its owner frowned as he noticed how it was shaking. His hands had never shaken, never, not even with old age; but those days it looked like all his years had caught up with him in the end, much like his deeds. He wasn't used to helplessness, not anymore, and it bothered him more than he was willing to admit. He supposed that was why the thought everything was about to end felt like such a relief.

No one had come to visit him in his last few hours, and he was fine with that: there was no one he would have liked to see in any case. A priest had tried to talk him into confessing – what was there left for him to confess? – but he had left almost immediately once Alba had made it clear he was only wasting his time. Palaeno had sent a message to let him know he would have the flowers looked after, but much to Alba's relief he hadn't been foolish enough to show up himself. Alba had also been asked what he wished for his last meal, and he had asked for no meal at all. He wanted to be alone in his last hour. Just him and his thought, his memories.

And the flowers.

* * *

 **Southern Cohdopia, May 1967**.

The battle was supposed to be brief: they were going to catch the enemy by surprise, they had been told. They would attack them quickly on their most vulnerable side and force them to retreat in the attempt to rearrange themselves for a counter attack only to be attacked from behind by another unit. It had seemed such a perfect plan, so simple, so easy. Too easy.

They had lied to them; the whole unit had been used as a bait, a distraction so that the other unit – the one made and led by people who actually counted – would attack the enemy from behind while they were busy decimating them: soldiers with no golden stars or medals to decorate their uniform, people who hadn't even been properly armed for a fight of a such magnitude, people who were nothing more than pigs raised for slaughter. People like him. Expendable.

When he and his comrades had realized what was truly going on it had been too late, and then there had been no time for seconds thoughts or retreats: there had only been blood and death and screams, the heavy smell of gunpowder and the frightening realization that none of them would live to see the sunset.

And yet, private Quercus Alba had lived at least enough to be granted that last sight: he could see the sun slowly disappearing behind the very same hill above the battlefield. But he did not enjoy the sight; too red, just like the blood – his own and his comrades' – soaking the ground their had fought for. He had had enough of blood for the rest of is life, which was going to be cut short very soon in any case. The wound on his side wasn't bleeding much now, but he knew that his end was just delayed. He had lost too much blood, he was dehydrated, the wound was serious and no one was coming to help him. He was going to die, he was certain of that, but he wasn't hurting anymore, something he supposed he should have been grateful for.

He was not, however – he felt nothing at all. No pain, no anger, no sadness and certainly not gratitude. Maybe it was better that way.

Quercus shut his eyes and rested his head back on the ground, the red circle of the sun still visible as though it had been imprinted in his retina. He couldn't tell whether he was the lone survivor of his unit or not; he simply didn't have enough strength to even try calling out for other survivors. Then again, there was probably none. He envied them: no man should lay severely wounded in a blood-soaked battlefield among hundreds of dead bodies – bodies of men who had been his family for months, from his recruitment up to now – while feeling his life slipping away with each laboured breath and then live to tell it. No one.

But then again he wouldn't live for much longer, would he?

_At least we won the battle._

A bitter chuckle escaped him as the thought crossed his mind. Who cared about the battle? He hadn't won anything. _They_ had won; the ones who had sent him and his comrades to their death without a second thought. The glory of victory would be theirs. People of Cohdopia would remember their names. His own name, along with hundreds of others, would be lost as if he never even existed. The only ones who'd remember then for a short time were their friends and family, people as expendable and worthless and themselves… and maybe not even that. Quercus wondered if he were the only one in that battalion who had no family who'd want his body back for mourning, and how many of them would be simply buried together in a mass grave whose location would soon be forgotten.

"Q… Quercus…?"

The feeble voice that reached his ears was barely a raspy whisper, and for a moment he thought he had been hearing things; but he did open his eyes and, with what felt like a supreme effort, turned to see the source of the sound. What he saw at first was only a mess of blood and ripped flesh and shattered bones; then the form moved, and Quercus recognized a body at first – bent in an unnatural position, legs missing, bones sticking out – and then a face, and eyes looking at him. That face had been handsome, but now a large bleeding gash made it almost unrecognisable; the hair had been blond, but now they were matted with red and their colour was impossible to see. What Quercus recognized where the blue eyes, so _blue_ and so widened with horror.

"Papilio," he heard himself rasping.

The other man gave no sign of hearing him. "They… sent us… to die," he chocked out.

Quercus supposed he should have felt at least something now. Horror, pain, sorrow, pity, rage, anything. But he still did not. "So they did," he just said.

"They… betrayed…!"

"No. They did not."

This time it was clear Papilio had heard him, for he trailed off and gave a gurgling noise that sounded like a question. Or maybe he was simply trying not to choke in his own blood, but Quercus took it as a question.

"They did what… was necessary. To win the battle," he shut his eyes and swallowed, and he finally did feel something, something akin to regret; not regret for not foreseeing what was coming for him and his comrades, but for not being one of those who counted, one of the ones in the rooms of powers moving people around the battlefield like pawns on a chessboard.

Had he been one of them, had he had the time to climb ranks in the army… he wouldn't have found himself in that situation. He wouldn't have been about to die as he was now. He would have been one of those whose names would be remembered, and not just some nobody dying in the middle of a battlefield because of a wound a good doctor could have treated easily enough. If only he was given enough time…!

A soft, sobbing sound snapped him from his thoughts. Quercus opened his eyes again and turned to see Papilio sobbing like a child despite the pain the slightest movement had to cause him, tears streaming down in ruined face and washing away some of the blood. He was a truly pathetic sight, and in a moment terror gripped Quercus' throat – terror that if Papilio kept crying like that it would be too much for him to bear, terror that he would break down like him and turn into a pathetic, whimpering mess as well.

_No, God, no. Let me meet a dignified death. At least this._

It shouldn't have even mattered how he died, for no one who had the slightest chance to live would see and no one would know – even if someone knew, who would remember him and his death for long anyway? – but the thought he could lose all restraint like that repulsed him.

"Stop," he rasped "stop that."

The sobs didn't stop, they only grew weaker and even more insufferable. Quercus felt as though that soft whimpering was now coming from his own head rather than from the outside, and he suddenly couldn't hear anything else, and he couldn't stop it, and he knew he'd go insane if it didn't stop now.

"Stop. Stop!" he tried to yell, but his whole chest burned and he could only gasp.

The weeping didn't cease.

_Stop it, stop it, oh God make it stop please make it STOP!_

What happened next would forever stay fuzzy in Alba's memory, but he would remember reaching to his left, where yet another fallen comrade lay, and taking the pistol still in his cold, dead hand. He aimed blindly and pulled the trigger, the bang deafening and the smell of gunpowder overpowering even the smell of blood, and Papilio's wailing abruptly ceased.

It took him a few minutes to open his eyes again, the abrupt movement having reopened the wound on his side. The pain had awakened, and it was quickly getting unbearable – but at least he now he had the means to make it stop quickly, didn't he? Quercus smirked to himself, held the pistol to his temple and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened. The rounds were empty. No easy way out for him.

Quercus gave a groaning noise of dismay and let the pistol fall on the ground before turning to look at Papilio's corpse. His face was no more, but at least his agony was over and no one who mattered anything would actually mourn him. What about him now?

Quercus grimaced and turned away from Papilio, his head still resting on the blood-soaked ground, his eyes searching for something – anything – that wasn't a dead, broken body. He couldn't manage to move, but if there were a weapon within his reach, any weapon-

What he saw just next to his face, however, was not a weapon, nor it was a corpse or a disembodied limb. It was something he surely hadn't expected to see in a battlefield after a battle such as that one, after all the blood and death and screams – a flower. A passionflower, he realized with an odd sense of awe. How could something as fragile as a flower have possibly survived in the midst of a battle such as that one?

And yet, there it was. Quercus shut his eyes and then opened them again, but the flower was still there, beautiful and untouched. Not even a petal had been tarnished; it was in full bloom and stood there, in the middle of a small patch of grass stained by blood. Quercus could remember seeing his mother pouring some cow's blood in her garden years earlier – before the previous war, before the garden was destroyed along with his house and family – while saying that it was good for the plants once in a while, and he confusedly wondered if his own blood and his comrades' was what that flower was feeding onto right now. Maybe their blood would help other flowers to grow. He hoped it would. It would be the one proof they had ever existed in the first place.

That flower. It was so beautiful. It was perfect. Fragile and still able to survive where so many men couldn't. Much like him – but he wasn't going to live for much longer, was he? Then again, a flower's life is short as well. He almost reached to touch it, but he refrained himself – he didn't want to stain it with his blood. He just stayed there, his eyes fixed on that small wonder in the middle of death, and he suddenly had no rush to die. He could as well rest back and simply enjoy the sight as he waited for his death. And so he stared, and waited for death to come.

But someone else got there before death could. After what felt like hours but was actually barely minutes Quercus was snapped from his trance by footstep and voices, confused at first, but quickly approaching and soon becoming clearer, until he clearly heard a voice only feet from where he was.

"Hey! Can anyone hear me? Is there someone still alive?"

Unable to even lift his head, Quercus had no way to know whether those were friends or enemies, but he didn't care. He opened his mouth to cry out, but only a gurgling noise left him – too low for anyone to hear him. But if they walked by him without realizing he was alive, if he didn't get help _now_ …!

"We're Cohdopians! Is there anyone left? Anyone…?"

Quercus acted out without thinking: he reached to take the now useless pistol he had dropped on the ground by his side and used up all strength he had left to throw it towards the voice. If even that failed, if they didn't find him…!

"What…? Hey, there must be someone still alive here. I'm going to take a look. You keep looking over there…"

Something awfully close to a sob escaped him as he let his hand fall back on the ground, any strength he had left having finally leaving him, and only seconds later a man appeared in his field vision and knelt next to him. "Over here! This one is still alive!" he called out before turning his full attention back to him "what's your name, soldier?"

But Quercus wasn't listening. "The flower," he gasped.

"What?"

"Move… move!" he chocked out, his fingers uselessly trying to push away the man's right knee from the spot on the ground it was resting onto – the spot where the flower was. "You're killing it, you…!"

The other man put a hand on his shoulder. "You have fever. You must be delirious," he muttered, but he did shift so that he wouldn't be kneeling on that spot anymore "don't worry, you'll be alright. We'll fix you up, son, you'll be fine…"

Whatever he was babbling had no meaning for Quercus, not anymore. He reached out again and this time his fingers found the flower, trampled and flattened, but it was still there. He grasped it, and smiled, his saviour's words getting harder and harder to make sense of as he finally began slipping out of consciousness, his voice reaching his ears as if from miles away.

" _Hang on, boy, help is almost here. You're going to make it, you hear me? You'll be fine. It's not time for to go yet, it's not…!"_

* * *

"It's time to go, Alba."

The old man's hand stopped touching the petals, a small smile curling his lips. "Yes, it is. After all this time, it is," he said quietly, so quietly that he wasn't even heard over the sound of the cell's door opening. He reached to take on of the flowers in the vase and stood up, straightening himself before turning to the guards. "Are you going to use those?" he asked, his gaze falling on the cuffs one of them was holding.

"Not if you don't give us any reason to," was the reply. That was not the usual procedure; his hands should have been cuffed behind his back as he stood in front of the firing squad – the kind of death a military man could request for himself there in Cohdopia, and he has chosen to die as a soldier – but those men seemed to be willing to spare him that, perhaps because his reputation as an invincible general and war hero still gained him some respect. It wasn't like he could escape with or without cuffs in any case.

"Very well. I will not," Alba finally said. "I'm ready."

No words were spoken as the guards escorted him to the yard where his execution would take place. No one but the coroner and the firing squad was there, which didn't surprise Alba very much; it was unlikely that anyone else would have been admitted to assist to his execution after he expressly said he didn't want outsiders to attend. He had been a very important man in his country after all; one of those who counted, no longer one of the expendable ones. In the end he had been the one to use people as pawn to move on a chessboard, in more ways than one. The thought made him smirk.

He walked in front of the firing squad and stood there, looking at everyone in the eyes, and none of the men held his gaze for more than a few instants. One of the guards walked up to him with the blindfold in his hand, but Alba shook his head.

"I won't need it," he said, his voice firm. It was yet another infraction of the normal procedure, but as he had expected the guard didn't insist and just stepped back. It was entertaining how not even being stripped of his title and being sentenced to death not all rules that counted for other people could count for him as well. He smirked again.

"Do you have any last words?"

Alba shook his head. "None," he said. He didn't need something as cliché as some last word to be remembered by. Not anymore.

"Ready!"

The order rang clearly through the yard, and the men in the firing squad raised their guns. Alba straightened himself, his chin held high, his gaze fixed ahead.

"Aim!"

Alba's hand tightened its grip around something small and fragile he hadn't let go of for an instant since the moment he had stepped out of his cell.

"Fire!"

The noise as the guns fired was deafening, and the smell of gunpowder would have brought back so many memories from his years on the battlefield – but there was no time for memories now. No more time.

Quercus Alba fell on the ground like a tree struck by lighting and didn't move anymore.

* * *

" _This young man was lucky," the surgeon commented, wiping his forehead with a satisfied smile on his face as he glanced down at the unconscious form of his last patient. Working as an army surgeon was rarely a very rewarding thing – not many of those who needed him made it without at least a crippling injury they'd have to live with for the rest of their lives – but he was positive that this one soldier would make it through without any other consequence but a scar on his side._

_He had been very lucky indeed: only a few inches more on the left and some internal organ could have been compromised, sentencing him to death. "He'll be perfectly fine soon. Though of course, this one war is over for him. He needs at least a few months to recover, and I'm pretty sure Borginia won't last that long against us after today's defeat. They'll have to retreat soon."_

" _I hope so. We all have had enough of this war," the nurse sighed "we should arrange for him to be brought back home," she added, reaching to take a look at the metal tag around the young man's neck. "Quercus Alba. I'll get the papers right away and- what's this?"_

" _What?" the doctor asked._

" _He has something in his hand," the nurse told him, prying his fingers open. "A… flower?"_

" _A flower, really?" the doctor chuckled a little "I wonder where he found one. I've never seen a patch of land as desolated as that one battlefield."_

" _Who knows," she said with a shrug, letting go of Quercus' hand._

_His fingers instinctively closed around the flower – or what was left of it – once more, as if clinging to it for dear life._

* * *

"No pulse. It's over," the coroner said, letting go of Alba's wrist and looking up at the guard standing next to him. "Tell the squad they can go home, and have the body delivered to the morgue."

"Of course," the guard nodded and turned to gesture for the firing squad to leave. "He'll be brought at the morgue right away."

"Good. I'd like to be home before- what is it?" the coroner frowned a little, still crouched next to Alba's body.

"What?"

"He has something in his hand," he said. He took the hand again and tried to pry his fingers open, but his fist was balled too tightly for him to do so without putting some effort in it, as if rigor mortis had set in… which wasn't possible, of course.

"Oh, that. Must be the flower."

"The flower?"

"Yes. He had passionflowers with him in his cell, and he took one before we brought him here."

"Ah. I see," the coroner got up and brushed away some dust from his trousers, not really feeling like struggling to snatch a flower from a dead body's hand "I suppose it won't hurt leaving it there, then."

"Guess not. They can deal with it later," the guard agreed, not even thinking that with rigor mortis setting in it was later impossible for anyone to pry Alba's fingers open without having to break them, and that the flower would have to be left there. He glanced down at the fallen man; he had died with his eyes open, but the coroner had closed them right before checking for his pulse and now he could have looked like he was sleeping hadn't it been for the bullet wounds on his chest. "The fixation with flowers was the least surprising part. I'll never get what this guy was out to get," he said to no one in particular, taking off his cap to scratch his head. "He was a war hero, he was our ambassador, he had plenty of money and power. Why should he get through the trouble of even starting a smuggling ring? It sounds like more trouble than it was worth."

"To amuse himself, perhaps. If I read the trial's accounts correctly, it was nothing but a game to him. I suppose all the power he had was enough for him to decide he would have some fun by using it."

The other man frowned as he watched some men walking into the yard to take Alba's body to the morgue. "That explanation is worse than the doubt. A _game_? Economies were destroyed and people died because of his little game. How could he come to value human life so little?"

"No idea. Maybe he was just an old man who thought of anyone but himself as expendable," the coroner gave him a light pat on the shoulder. "Don't think too much about him. He's not worth it."

The guard sighed. "Guess you have a point," he said before finally turning his back to Alba's body and walking inside. He had promised ambassador Palaeno he'd have Alba's plants delivered to the national botanic garden at once, and he couldn't wait for those damned flowers to be out of his sight.


	2. Franziska

It wasn't often Franziska von Karma found herself at a loss of words; actually, she couldn't recall it ever happening. She was thus caught by surprise when she found herself unable to utter a single word for a few instants as she looked at her father sitting on the other side of the glass.

Manfred von Karma didn't however seem surprised by her silence, nor he spoke for a few moments. He just looked back at his daughter somewhat inquisitively. "You've grown," he finally said. He hadn't seen her in several months, and she truly did seem to have grown up during that time; it was hardly a surprise since she had just turned seventeen, but since when she had passed the bar and had become a prosecutor at thirteen he tended to forget just _how_ young she actually was.

"So I was told," Franziska found herself replying just as calmly before finally addressing to the circumstances of that meeting. "I took the first flight I could find once I heard what happened."

Her father frowned. "I should hope you didn't leave the trial unfinished to come here," he said.

She shook her head. "Of course not. The trial ended right at the first day. I had the defendant found guilty, of course."

That seemed to please him. "Of course you did. That was a given," he replied, shifting on his seat, and it was then that Franziska noticed something was off with his posture – he was sitting too stiffly, even by his standards. Then she realized what it had to be.

"They removed the bullet, didn't they? For the ballistics."

"They did," he nodded, his gaze darkening and his hand moving a little as if about to reach for his right shoulder, but he eventually just put it down again. "A waste of time, if you ask to me. But now that there is no reason in keeping it hidden, I was glad enough to have it removed from my shoulder."

"I can imagine," Franziska said flatly, looking at his shoulder. She stayed silent for a few moments.

"What is it?" von Karma asked, sounding a little annoyed. He seemed to shift a little on the seat, and Franziska's gaze moved from his shoulder to his eyes again.

"When you came back in Germany and stayed for months," she finally said, "it was because you needed to let your shoulder heal where no one would notice, wasn't it?"

Von Karma held her gaze with the utmost calm. "Yes."

"I see," Franziska said quietly, but she couldn't fully hide the frown on her face, and it didn't escape him.

"I wouldn't have stayed as much as I did if it wasn't for that, if that's what you're wondering."

She glared at him sharply. "Would you have come at all if you were not wounded and needed to hide the proof you were a murderer?" she asked. "I doubt that."

"I visited you on other occasions."

"I could count the times you did on my fingers," she said, this time unable to block out the bitterness from her voice. "You were far too busy mentoring that foolish fool, making a perfect prosecutor out of him first to destroy his life afterwards. And I was left behind," she added. It had been frustrating enough how her father had seemed to put Miles' training as a prosecutor before her own, and somehow the knowledge he had actually wanted to destroy him all along made it even worse. She didn't only come after his protégée, she came after his revenge and wounded pride. It wasn't supposed to surprise her, maybe, but it still stung so much more than she was willing to admit to herself.

Von Karma scowled. "I wasn't in Germany often because, as you know, I was busy with a perfect career," he remarked.

"Of course. And keeping me in Germany was the perfect excuse to keep me out of the way."

"There is a reason why I wanted you to stay in Germany, and you know it," von Karma said, something akin to anger showing in his voice. "After your mother-"

"Oh, yes. My mother," Franziska said coldly. "She was murdered by a man whose wife you had convicted for murder, wasn't she? And she wasn't even the target. He wanted to get revenge on _you_."

"What of it?" von Karma snapped. "Are you saying it was my fault? Are you even listening to yourself, Franziska? That woman was guilty, and I proved her guilt – as a prosecutor, that's my duty!"

"Was she truly guilty, or did you forge evidence like you did when Gregory Edgeworth caught-"

"ENOUGH!"

Franziska shut her mouth and froze at her father's scream and at the loud noise as he hit the desk with his left hand clenched in a fist. "I'll hear no more nonsense like this from you, Franziska! I thought you knew better!" he seethed. "I'm a prosecutor, and as such getting a guilty verdict is my objective! If the defendant is indeed innocent and is _still_ proven guilty, it means the defence attorney didn't do their job properly!"

A long, heavy silence followed. Finally, Franziska nodded. "Always strive for perfection," she said quietly.

Von Karma's lips curled in something remarkably similar to a smirk. "Now I recognize you."

A long silence fell between them, and Franziska looked at her father, really _looked_ at him for the first time. Manfred von Karma had loomed so large in her life, first as a distant father whose influence was still strong even from another continent and then as a god among prosecutors – the invincible prosecutor who demanded nothing short of perfection from himself, and from _her_. She had not once questioned him, not once defied his authority, never wanted anything from him but attention and those few words of praise that were so difficult to get out of him. She had never viewed him as a mere, flawed human being.

But now, stripped of his perfect record and dressed in a prison suit that made him look sickly pale, he suddenly looked so human, and so _old_. Still proud, but defeated. Powerless. And flawed.

Franziska knew she was probably supposed to ask him why he had done that to Miles. At least the murder of Gregory Edgeworth had an explanation – her father had been furious for having been penalized, almost in insane rage, and then he had been shot: he had found himself furious, shocked and in pain, with a gun at his feet and the man he hated the most lying unconscious in front of him. He had thought it was fate, he had thought Gregory Edgeworth deserved to die, and he had pulled the trigger. That much she could at least understand. But going as far as taking a child in his care neglecting his own daughter to do so, becoming his mentor and father figure, tutoring him to become a prosecutor for so many years and then trying to destroy his life… it was too much. It was insanity.

But she still didn't ask about that; she was almost afraid of what answer she could get out of him. "There isn't much hope for you at the trial," she finally said. While his guilt had been proven during Miles Edgeworth's trial, by law he had the right to have a trial of his own, no matter how useless.

"There is none," von Karma simply said. "It's nothing but a formality I would have rather spared myself – even that pathetic Payne could have me convicted. I have no patience for such a miserable charade. I'll plead guilty," he said, then he gave an odd smile, "and I predict it will be over within three minutes."

"I see."

There was another silence. "Will you be there, Franziska?" von Karma finally asked. He sounded so calm, like when she was young and he asked her if she was going to watch one of the trials he took part to as a prosecutor. She always said that yes, of course she wanted to watch: she had loved seeing her father in action, seeing him ruling the court and proving every single defendant guilty in just minutes.

Still, did she want to witness a trial in which he was no longer the prosecutor, but the defendant?

"Do you mean the trial or the execution?" she asked. They both knew he was going to receive the death penalty: if he might have made it out of it with just a life sentence for the murder of Gregory Edgeworth – maybe by claming that the shock and pain from the wound in his shoulder made him act without thinking it through – the fact he had organized Hammond's murder and tried to have Miles Edgeworth convicted for it was the final nail in his coffin.

"Both."

Franziska was reminded of how her father had replied to her question when she had asked him if he'd come to see her debut as a prosecutor, the reply that to him meant 'yes' most times. "I'll consider it," she said, getting up.

Von Karma nodded. "Very well. I'll see you there," he said, gesturing for the guard standing next to the door to lead him out of there. Franziska looked at his retreating back for a few moments before walking out of the room herself, her steps a little quicker than it should have been necessary – but she wanted, needed to be outside and breathe some fresh air. Some people greeted her a little nervously on her way out, their eyes resting fearfully on the whip dangling from her side, but she barely acknowledged them.

Once she was finally outside she drew in a deep breath, unbothered by the cold air – but there was still a part of her that felt trapped, as though it had stayed inside with her father. She bit her lower lip and turned back to the detention centre, her gaze a little unfocused. Hadn't she been taught to be perfect and never to let unnecessary feelings get in the way, she knew she had to look unnaturally calm about the whole thing in other people's eyes. She was supposed to be upset about the fact her father was going to be executed soon, horrified by his crime, by what he had done to Miles because of his grudge against his old rival.

And still, foolish at it probably was, the one thing that truly bothered her was knowing that his long visit home hadn't been about her at all.

* * *

**Los Angeles, December 31** **st** **, 2001**

Hadn't it been for the distant chiming of the grandfather's clock coming from his study, Manfred von Karma wouldn't have been able to keep track of time. Not that he was even trying. Truth to be told, that noise was reassuring just for the fact hearing it meant he had to be still alive; without at least that, as he lay on his bed with the lights off and barely conscious anymore it would have been far too easy thinking he had died and gone into some kind of dark limbo. Or in hell. It certainly felt hot enough to be hell.

God, he was burning up and he was so, so thirsty. But his previous attempt at reaching for the glass of water he had on his nightstand – with his left hand, for any little movement of his right arm would cause such a searing pain in his shoulder to make him scream – had resulted with him making the glass fall on the ground with a sound of breaking glass that had resounded in his ears as loud as a gunshot. A gunshot, like that one three days ago, and there had been so much fury and blood and pain, that _pain_ …!

He hadn't even tried to get up. He couldn't move, as though he had no strength left to, and he would never be able to stand up now, let alone to drag himself in the kitchen and get some water for himself.

Oh well. No matter. He was going to simply ignore his thirst – he could do that easily, he was perfect and thus he could do that as long as necessary – until he was strong enough to get some. And until that moment he… he'd simply rest.

It was insanity, and a part of his mind knew it very well. He was alone in his home, sicker than he had ever been – with a bullet wound in his shoulder that needed to be properly tended and high fever and God, he felt so _weak_ – and without any kind of help there was a pretty good chance for him to never wake up once he finally gave in and fell asleep or unconscious. But he would not, could not call for any help. They would know it had been him if he did, everyone would know who had killed Gregory Edgeworth as the worthless dog he was and nothing would have spared him the death sentence. He would not give in. He would make it through it. He could make it through it.

"No, you fool, you can't. You'll die anyway if you don't call for help."

Von Karma immediately recognized that voice, velvet-clad iron, but he did not open his eyes to see its owner, for he knew he would see nobody in that room, and not only because of the dark. There was no one there with him. He was hallucinating, his wife was dead – but he still found himself replying, his voice hoarse. "I don't… need any help," he said.

There was not reply for a few moments, then he could feel cold fingers lightly brushing against his cheek for a moment, but he knew it was only an illusion. He had to have passed out eventually. "You are getting old, Manfred," his dead wife's voice spoke somewhere at his left. "While, now that I think about it, I never will."

"Of course not. You're dead," he chocked out. "And you're not here. I'm hallucinating. You're a product of my imagination."

"Obviously," was the reply. This time the cold touch of her fingers on the feverish skin of his forehead was soothing, and welcomed. "I'm dead, nothing but ashes now. And you'll join me soon without any kind of help. You don't even have any antibiotics."

"I could not get any. They would have noticed my wound. They would have seen at least something was wrong."

"Such a foolish idea. You're sentencing yourself to death here and now this way. You should have got some antibiotics. They would have never thought it had anything to do with what happened to Edgeworth."

Von Karma found himself chuckling, his eyes still shut. Funny how he had no strength to open them even now that he was dreaming. "I leave no clue behind. Not even the slightest lead. I'm perfect."

"No, you're not. You never were," she simply stated, and he was about to protest, but those cold, cold fingers were running through his hair and the pain in his shoulder had dulled, and he could only keep resting on his back with his eyes shut, unable to find it in himself to argue.

"Why are you even here?" he finally asked.

"I'm a fragment of your imagination. I'm not here at all, remember?" her voice sounded almost amused

"Yes, you are," he murmured incoherently. "I want you here. Therefore you must be here. Stay."

She didn't reply.

"Françoise...?"

Whatever he had been about to say next was cut short as her hand suddenly grabbed the left side of his face, causing him to wince; her grip was icy, and it was suddenly hard to remember that her skin had once felt soft and smooth and warm. He opened his mouth to speak again, but then a sudden bolt of pain came from his shoulder as he felt someone shaking him with more force than it would be necessary to wake someone up, and the pain caused him to wake up from his delirious sleep. Von Karma gasped and opened his eyes, and he was only mildly surprised as his gaze didn't meet his late wife's grey eyes but two very angry, and very green ones.

"Manny! What the hell is this about?" Chief Detective Damon Gant finally stopped shaking him and pulled back to let him recollect for a moment. Shaking his head as if it could help his mind to make it out of the daze, he could see Gant turning to glance at the bloodied bandages on the nightstand – von Karma had recently changed the bandages, before the fever became too high and he was unable to move from his bed.

"I knew you were crazy, but this…!" Gant snapped, tearing his gaze from the bloodied bandages and glaring at him again. "What happened? How long has it been like this? Hey, don't zone out again, I asked- what?" he frowned, trying to catch the meaning of his incoherent mumblings.

"Don't… anyone…" von Karma managed to utter, reaching to weakly grab Gant's wrist. "Don't you… dare."

"Yeah, I kind of figured out you don't want anyone to know about this," Gant seemed to have recollected now, enough to give a low whistle as he checked von Karma's shoulder, completely ignoring his protests. "Well, no wonder you didn't show up at our appointment. Whoever was it to do this, they sure made a number on you. Anyway, I would have expected the perfect prosecutor to take better care of a wound like this. No medicine classes in law schools, eh?" he chuckled before pulling back, clapping his hands once. "Ah well. So, is the bullet still in?"

"Can't you… tell?" von Karma managed to sneer.

"I _could_ turn you over to check for exit wounds, old boy, but that would hurt," Gant pointed out "and I don't really feel like having you screaming at me for whatever reason. But if you insist…"

Von Karma grunted. "Couldn't pull it out."

"So, it's still in. That complicates things. You'll need a surgeon to pull it out. I could hear if-"

"NO!" The shout took most of the strength von Karma had left in him, and it took him a few moments to make himself speak again. "No surgeons."

"Look, the guy I'm talking about owes me a favour or two and is trustworthy enough-"

"I. Said. No," von Karma gritted out. "Not a word of this to anyone, or I swear to God your career will be over and you'll be in prison before you could… you…!" he felt suddenly dizzy and had to swallow.

Gant rolled his eyes. "Fine, I get the picture. Guess that leaves me with the duty of playing the nurse. Great. But I'm warning you, I won't be wearing skirts," he paused and stared down at von Karma for a few moments, causing him to feel rather unnerved as always when he stared at him like that. Those stares couldn't mean anything good. Then the piercing gaze faded in a laugh. "Just so you know, Manny boy," he said, wiggling a finger at him "it would be _so_ much easier for me letting you die. Or killing you myself and letting the bullet in your shoulder take the blame. A dead man can't blackmail me, after all."

Von Karma snorted, but he couldn't help but cringe inwardly; he had no trouble believing that Damon Gant would have no qualms killing him if it came to his advantage. "You… need my assistance as much as I need yours," he finally managed to say, his voice remarkably firm despite the searing pain in his shoulder. "You wouldn't be Chief Detective if it wasn't for me, and if you want to strive for an even higher seat…!"

"And you wouldn't have your perfect winning streak if I didn't, how should I say?, turn in a blind eye when you _examined_ the evidence," Gant retorted, "without even counting the times I _examined_ it myself. I'd say we're even on that, old boy. It was a fruitful cooperation, yes? And I'm sure it will keep going wonderfully as long as we both know where we stand. And stay alive," Gant patted his knee and sighed. "Ah, well. Time for a little trip to the pharmacy. You'll need new bandages, disinfectant, and antibiotics to fix you up. A truckload of antibiotics."

"If you…" von Karma swallowed, close to slipping out of consciousness once more – the few sentences he had managed to utter had drained him, and he once again felt so thirsty! "If you… tell anyone…!"

"Won't tell if you don't tell, Fredo," Gant sounded almost cheerful now. "But you'll have to explain me what happened, okay? Now try not to die on me while I'm away."

Von Karma wanted to say that he had no intention at all to do so, but he was only able to slur something intelligible before Gant turned off the lights again, leaving him in the dark as he left, closing the door behind himself without really bothering to be quiet. Then again, Damon Gant was hardly quiet on anything.

_Can I trust him?_

No, von Karma thought a moment before slipping out of consciousness again, he couldn't trust him. But he knew Gant and he knew that he wouldn't let someone useful to him die. If anything, he could trust him to be a selfish bastard and keep him alive.

* * *

"Are you sure you're ready to travel, Freddie?"

Von Karma gritted his teeth, as always when he willed himself to ignore the various, ridiculous nicknames Gant had the habit of using for him. He didn't even bother to point out once more that his name was Manfred and certainly not Freddie, Fredo or Manny – he had long since given up on trying to make Damon Gant use his surname or his given name at least. "I'm sure," he said, locking the front door before picking up his suitcase once more with his left hand "it won't be a problem as long as I don't move my arm too much. It just needs rest."

"If you think so," Gant said with a shrug, leaning against the wall and glancing at the road to see if the cab was in sight, much to von Karma's chagrin – he had hoped he'd leave him alone. "But I'd be careful with that if I were you. It's a bad one."

"I can look after myself, Gant."

"Can you?" Gant seemed amused. "You would have died if I didn't come over to check on you, Manny boy. It's bad enough that you wanted no doctor to check that out," he gave von Karma a piercing gaze that took the prosecutor all his will to stand, making him wonder if had figured out the truth or not. "But just staying home alone with not even some antibiotic… really, I would have expected you to know better."

"If you think I'm going to thank you, get ready for a long wait," von Karma said sharply.

"Wasn't waiting for you to. But an explanation would be just as nice," Gant stared at him again. "You owe me at least that, my friend."

Von Karma scowled. "I'm no friend of yours," he said scathingly. "And I owe you absolutely nothing. What happened to me is none of your business, and I highly advice you to keep your mouth shut, always." This time it was him to glare at Gant. "Because I have all that it takes to take you down with me if necessary."

Gant held his gaze for a moment, then he had a reaction that could have only surprised someone who didn't know him – he threw back his head and laughed, clapping his hands a few times. "Ten points for the dramatics, Fredo," he said, "but no need to worry, I'll keep quiet. People who annoy you have the tendency to end up badly, don't they?" he smirked and looked straight in von Karma's eyes. "Like good old Worthy, just to say one."

And so he knew, or at least suspected. But no matter, he was going to keep his mouth shut. Von Karma knew that much. "I cannot say I cried rivers over his death," was all he finally replied.

"Yeah, no wonder. Sorry about your record, by the way," Gant sounded amused, clearly aware of the surge of anger that thought caused the other man. "But on to happier subjects, how long is this vacation going to last?"

"No more than a couple of months," von Karma said stiffly, then he picked up the suitcase once more as he saw the cab stopping in front of his residence – it was three minutes late, he thought with a scowl – and walked towards it without sparing Gant another look.

"Tell little Franny I said hi!" he heard Gant cheerfully calling after him.

Von Karma had to hold back from snapping at him that her name was _Franziska_ ; discussing over it with Gant would only be annoying, tiring, and useless. "Given that she remembers you. I very much doubt she does. Good for her," he said dryly before getting inside the cab and nodding to the driver. "To the international airport."

* * *

While not quite up to his standards – dinner had been served almost ten minutes late and the wine was not the best he had ever tasted – the flight in the first class lounge was rather uneventful; the seats were comfortable, and he had no reason to use his right arm at all, which was for the best. It still hurt when he moved it, though it wasn't quite as unbearable as before, and he was doing his best not to use it at all unless necessary.

Once landed he was satisfied to see his driver was already there, and there was some excellent wine in the limousine to make up for the less than perfect wine he had during the flight. By the time the limousine stopped in front of his mansion, von Karma was almost thinking that perhaps he had been in need of a vacation like that in Germany; besides, Franziska had to be two years old at that point and it was about time he checked her development personally.

He had called home a week earlier to let them know he was coming, so he was certain Franziska would be dressed up for the occasion; he expected nothing short of perfection from anyone, let alone from his own daughter. Von Karma wasn't disappointed in that regard: the moment he walked inside the first thing he heard – after absentmindedly giving a nod to the governess – was the sound of little girl shows quickly padding on the marble floor, and seconds later he saw the little girl quickly walking up to him, her hair tied back in a ponytail and wearing a blue dress some maid had certainly picked for her. She stopped a few feet from him and looked up at him, grey eyes wide, before giggling and taking a few more steps towards him. "Papa!" she exclaimed, her hands grabbing the fabric of his trousers.

Von Karma smiled. No, his expectations hadn't been disappointed at all so far. "I see you can walk properly already. Of course I wasn't expecting anything less," he told the toddler, who on the other hand gave him another big smile that showed quite a few new teeth. She didn't start going on with senseless babbling, as Von Karma knew most toddlers would have, but it didn't surprise him. She was no ordinary toddler – she was his daughter, and no senseless babbling would leave her mouth.

"Do you wish to rest before lunch, Herr von Karma?" one of the maids asked.

"I had enough time to rest during the flight. I'll be in my study – you come with me, Franziska," he added, something that seemed to fill the toddler with delight. He still had to see exactly how she had developed. If there were any imperfection, he could as well take advantage of the time he had to spend there to fix it himself before it could be too late. "Do call for us when dinner is ready – not one minute earlier!"

"Of course. Is Franziska going to have lunch with you…?"

Von Karma frowned in annoyance as he detected something akin to worry in the woman's voice. "Of course she's going to have lunch with me," he snapped. "Why shouldn't she? Does she still need help to eat? Last time I asked, you assured me she's capable to eat by herself already," his eyes narrowed dangerously. "Or were you lying to me?"

"I… no, I wasn't, sir. She's perfectly capable to eat by herself," was the quick reply. "She's been doing so for months now. She's a little prodigy. Aren't you, Franziska?" she asked, and the child immediately nodded, her hands still gripping her father's trousers.

Von Karma relaxed a little. "Of course she is," he said before turning to head upstairs. "Now come, Franziska," he added, walking ahead, and he was both amused and satisfied to see how eagerly she climbed upstairs after him.

Despite the fact it hadn't been used in months – his last visit had been no less that four months earlier, and he had stayed for barely a few days – his study was of course spotless; he didn't always warn beforehand when he visited, and everyone in the mansion knew that they wouldn't like the results should he find one single spot in his study… or in any corner of the house for that matter.

Still, something was off, and it took him a few moments to realize what it was – there was a small plaid on the carpet, on foot of his favourite armchair and just in front of the television. On the plaid, he could see a small stuffed doll; it truly wasn't too hard to guess who the responsible was. He turned to his daughter with a scowl on his face. "What is this about?" he asked sternly, giving a brief nod towards the objects. "I thought you knew better than messing in my study."

Franziska, on the other hand, didn't seem neither scared nor sorry; she just sat on the plaid and grabbed the remote control before gesturing for him to sit on the armchair.

"That doesn't quite answer to my question," von Karma said a little coldly, but he did sit on his armchair and glanced at the television, rather curious to see what it was about. Franziska messed with the remote control for just a few moments, then the television turned on and von Karma was taken aback upon seeing none other but himself on the screen, standing in the courtroom and giving his opening statement for a trial he remembered winning a handful of months earlier.

"The tapes I sent. I almost forgot," he muttered glancing down at Franziska to see her looking up at him with a wide smile – he now did remember sending those tapes for her to see them some time back so that she could start learning what prosecuting was about as soon as possible, but… he had expected her to watch those once she got a little older: he doubted she would understand much of anything now. Still, he noticed as his daughter turned her attention back to the tape, she seemed to enjoy watching him in action already. So much the better, he thought with a smirk. He glanced at the television again; he had to admit it was rather satisfying watching himself completely tearing apart any attempt that pathetic defence attorney had made to-

" _Obesciùn_!"

The slight smirk that was curling von Karma's lips already as he watched himself in action – oh, yes, despite the odds he had done an excellent job in that trial and had ruled the court, as always – turned into a chuckle as Franziska yelled, the very same moment he had done so in the tape. He glanced down to see she was pointing a small finger towards the television, her face scrunched in concentration.

"That's not quite how you pronounce it and you look like you're pointing at the ceiling, but I suppose we can work on that," he said, reaching to take the remote control and pausing the video on the moment he had shouted. The framed showed him with an outstretched arm. He gestured for her to get up and she immediately did, holding onto his knees to steady herself. "It's 'objection', Franziska, not…whatever you said earlier. OBJECTION!" he thundered as though in the courtroom again. That shout from him had made many defendants cringe and had turned the blood in the veins of so many defence attorneys into ice, but, far from being intimidated, Franziska laughed and clapped before trying herself.

"Ob… obi… obe…"

"Objection," von Karma repeated slowly. "Ob- _je_ -ction."

Franziska looked up at him a little doubtfully.

"You're a von Karma. You can do it, " he said, more sternly than encouragingly, but it seemed to serve its purpose: Franziska scowled in concentration for a few moments before impetuously pointing her finger at him and shrieking.

"OBJECTION!"

It was what he had been expecting, of course – she _had_ to be perfect, and thus she _had_ to succeed – but she had been remarkably quick to learn, even by his standards, and von Karma smirked once more. "Rather impressive," he said, causing her to giggle again, clearly delighted by his approval. His left hand reached for her still outstretched arm. "But as I said earlier, you'll need to work on gestures. Swinging your arm too much will make it look like you're uselessly flailing," he told her, guiding her arm into bending and then stretching the right way once as he spoke. She observed the movement with great attention.

"Try by yourself now. No, not like that. You have to put more strength in it, like- _ah_!" von Karma let out a hoarse cry at the sudden pain in his right shoulder, his eyes tightly shut, and he had to grit his teeth to keep himself from cursing. He had been so taken by the lesson, so proud of how quickly she learned that for a moment he had completely forgotten that he was not supposed to move his arm that much, let alone to lift it to point at anything like he just had.

"Damn you, Edgeworth," he growled under his breath, not knowing if he was referring to father or son nor really caring, deaf to his daughter's worried babblings. Finally the white-hot pain subsided and he opened his eyes again, and he was almost startled to see how worriedly she was looking up at him, her small hands still clutching his trousers.

"Papa?" she called out again, sounding almost scared now, and von Karma mentally cursed himself once more. He was not to show any weakness in front of anyone, let alone in front of his daughter. He was not to _have_ any weakness!

"I'm fine," he finally said through gritted teeth, and Franziska a tad less scared, but still alarmed. She picked something from the floor and put it on his lap.

"Make better," she muttered.

Von Karma raised an eyebrow before pushing the doll on the floor. "Don't be foolish, Franziska. I highly doubt a doll could make anything better."

"Oh," the child murmured. She looked at him a little thoughtfully for a few moments before padding to her father's desk and climbing on the chair. He frowned.

"What in the world are you doing?" he demanded to know, getting up form the armchair to approach her – she had taken a piece of paper and a pen and was now scribbling something. "I don't think a silly picture would help in any way eith-" he trailed off as Franziska promptly jumped off the chair and handed the piece of paper to him, smiling proudly. He took it with a slightly annoyed frown, which softened as he realized that she hadn't been drawing – she had been _writing_ , at two years of age. It looked like to her making him proud and making him feel better were one and the same. It wasn't too far from the truth, von Karma mused.

"I'm suitably impressed," he finally said, still glancing at the paper where her name – F-R-A-N-Z-I-S-K-A – was spelled in large characters, then he gave it back to her "can you spell your surname as well?"

"Yes!" the child chirped, eagerly snatching the sheet from his hand and getting back to the desk. Von Karma approached to take a look over her shoulder and chuckled as he saw how quickly she wrote. In a matter of moments, V-O-N K-A-R-M-A was written on paper as well. She truly _was_ a prodigy.

"Good," he said approvingly, leaning on the desk with his left hand. "What else can you write?"

Franziska giggled again, clearly relishing in his approval, and began writing again. When she pulled back, M-A-N-F-R-E-D was written in large characters on the left – and, right below, she had spelled P-A-P-A. Von Karma found himself chuckling. "Good to know you can tell exactly who I am," he said. "Is that all?"

Franziska immediately shook her head.

"Very well, then. Do show me."

This time it took her a few more instants to write and there was a little hesitation at some point, but she finished writing quickly and pulled back for her father to see. She had drawn an arrow coming from his name and pointing at the new word she had written in German: P-E-R-F-E-K-T.

"Of course I am," von Karma said proudly. It was good to see his daughter had already grasped what her father was, and what she was expected to be. "And as a von Karma, you can't be anything less."

He was about to press on a little – and maybe ask her if she could write actual sentences already – but he was interrupted by a soft knock on the door.

"Lunch is ready, Herr von Karma."

"We're coming," he said, and he was amused to see how Franziska was pouting now – it looked like she hadn't appreciated how her father's attention had been taken from her even for just a moment. But of course, that didn't mean there would be a shortage of occasions for her to make him proud. "I was told you can use cutlery and eat all by yourself, Franziska. Is that true?"

She immediately brightened and nodded.

"Very well. Looks like you'll have a chance to prove that right away," he said, and he wasn't too surprised when she jumped down the chair and went downstairs, eager to please him as always.

And indeed, Franziska proved herself to be more than capable to eat by herself, picking the right cutlery and not making a mess out of herself – somehow, it satisfied more than the rest how she didn't need any kind of napkin around her neck as most children did: the blue and white dress she was wearing was still spotless when they were done eating. And, he was also proud to notice, she didn't start squirming to get up as soon as she was done eating: she patiently waited for him to be done as well – his right arm felt stiff and he was taking it slowly – only to get up as soon as he stood as well.

Still not quite sure of what to make of all the spare time he suddenly had, von Karma had a half idea of strolling a little, if anything to see if the trees surrounding the mansion had been properly taken care of while he was away, but he had barely enough time to walk in the hall and reach for his coat before he felt something gripping his trousers and yanking a little. He glanced down to see Franziska looking up at him worriedly, small hands still gripping the fabric. "What is it?"

"Stay!" she almost ordered, still pouting, and it occurred to him she might have thought he was actually leaving for the States once more.

"Don't be ridiculous, Franziska. I'm not leaving for quite a while," he said sternly, some bitterness making it in his voice. That cursed Edgeworth, he though. Not only he had ruined his perfect record, but he – no, his _son_ – had also given him a wound that was going to keep him away from the courtroom for weeks, if not months…! "I'm only taking a walk. Let go of me, Franziska," he said coldly.

She shook her head. "No!"

"You heard me!"

The child pouted even more, still looking up at him, and didn't let go of him. She looked a lot like her mother when she was being stubborn, he mused before scowling. "I told you, I'm not going anywhere. Or do you want to follow to make sure I don't run all the way to the airport?" he asked sharply. He had meant to be sarcastic, but the sarcasm clearly went well past Franziska's head – he tended to forget she was just a toddler, he thought in annoyance – and she nodded eagerly, her expression brightening.

Oh well. He supposed he could endure her presence during the walk, as long as she didn't start babbling. To be honest, she hadn't done nor said anything that had annoyed him yet. "Very well," he finally said "but I expect you to put on boots and a coat. It's cold outside. You have two minutes to do so," he added, and he blinked as Franziska ran upstairs far more quickly than he had thought it would be possible for a toddler. He rather hoped she wouldn't stumble on her way up her room, or while climbing back down the stair, or-

He had no time to muse any further, for the moment he finished putting his coat on without twisting his right arm too much she was next to him again in an instant with boots at her feet and her coat on already. How could she do _that_?

"You were quick," he said in mild surprise, then he cleared his throat – it didn't escape him how she smiled up at him as though he had just complimented her – and turned his back to her, motioning for her to follow.

There was still some snow on the ground, but not enough to make walking difficult, and the stroll turned out to be rather pleasant, especially since Franziska didn't blabber all the time: she'd kick some snow from time to time and say something over how pretty it was, but her company was overall bearable. Von Karma ended up being so taken by thoughts of what he was going to do once he was back in the States – Gregory Edgeworth was dead, but he wouldn't allow the boy who had given him that wound to keep going without paying for what he had done – that he barely took notice of how Franziska's comments had grown rare as they kept walking, how less inclined she seemed to kick up the snow and how it was taking her more and effort to keep up with him, her small legs needing to make several steps to match one of his.

He was however forced to take notice as he felt a small hand reaching to grab his. He frowned in confusion – she could walk perfectly fine by herself, if of course slower than he did, so why would she want that? – and glanced down at her to see she was dragging her feel at that point, her little stubborn face betraying some tiredness. Perhaps the walk had been too long for a toddler, no matter how perfect.

"We should get going back. You shouldn't have come with me," von Karma said sternly. Franziska looked up at him and held up her arms somewhat hopefully. He sighed. "For heaven's sake…!" he grumbled, but he did pick her up with his left arm, careful not to strain the other one. She sat comfortably in the crook of his arm, her small arms around his neck, and he was suddenly reminded of the last time he had picked her up like that, during her mother's funeral. The memory made him scowl, but he couldn't dwell in it for long: he was suddenly distracted by a certain someone yanking at his cravat lightly. He glanced down at the toddler.

"If you like it, you'll have one once you're older. Quit trying to yank mine away," he said sternly, and she immediately stopped pulling to glance up at him again, squirming and pursing her lips, and he understood that it wasn't his cravat she had been after. He hesitated – such useless displays of affection had never been something he cared about – but he supposed she had earned herself that, given the proofs she had just given him of actually being a prodigy.

"If you're so inclined," he finally said, lowering his head just enough to let her give him a kiss on his cheek – as long as it helped making her stop squirming, he supposed he could endure it for once. Franziska gave a happy squeal before giving him a peck on the cheek and falling quiet again, letting him carry her back to the mansion, her eyes slowly closing.

Von Karma smirked as he heard her murmuring something that sounded a lot like 'objection' as she finally fell asleep. She truly was a prodigy – a prodigy that would make a perfect prosecutor someday. The thought made his smirk widen. Of course, she still had such a long way to go, and he had a lot to teach her, so he could as well make the best out of the situation and just do so. It would keep him busy, and productive. Aside from the impossibility to be in a courtroom again soon, perhaps those months of inactivity wouldn't be too terrible.

As he approached the gate leading to the manor, von Karma glanced down at his daughter's sleeping face – she looked so much like her mother while sleeping, too, and for a moment he had some trouble dismissing the odd sensation that made his chest swell as mere pride.

* * *

Just as he had said he would, Manfred von Karma had plead guilty at the trial. And, as he had anticipated, the trial was over in three minutes with him _ordering_ the judge to pass judgement already – he could rule the court even as the defendant, Franziska had thought with an odd mixture of bitterness, admiration and even something close to amusement. But no surprise

She hadn't been surprised in the slightest when her father had been sentenced to death either, the execution to be carried on in two weeks. Nor she had been surprised when the only thing her father had wanted to discuss with her about in the one visit he had allowed her had been his will – to which no change had been made for, she had found out, she had always been meant to be the only heir to everything he owned – and her own career as a prosecutor.

The last words he told her as she left were the ones etched in her mind already – _always strive for perfection_. No goodbyes, no explanations on anything he had done and she couldn't comprehend, but she hadn't expected any. After the visit was over, Franziska had left with no emotion at all but an odd sense of emptiness. Again, she hadn't been surprised.

The day of the execution, there weren't many people witnessing it from behind the two way-mirror: just herself, a few officers, some of her father's colleagues and the Chief of Police, Damon Gant – someone Franziska remembered having worked with her father for most of their career. Miles Edgeworth hadn't wanted to attend; yet another unsurprising turn of events.

Franziska watched in silence as the execution was carried on, so quick and clean that it seemed surreal. Only a few moments had been necessary for the executioner to insert the needle just below von Karma's elbow and inject the anaesthetic; von Karma – who had stayed still the whole time, his expression betraying no emotion at all – had slipped into a deep sleep quickly, a slight frown still creasing his brow. Then another needle had been pushed in the pale skin of his arm, something else had been injected – and in the span of a few minutes the machine monitoring his pulse was only showing a flat line, the frown gone from his face.

And it finally really occurred to Franziska that it was over, just like that, that Manfred von Karma was gone and that his legacy rested now on her shoulders alone; that no matter how much of a flawed human being he had been, he _was_ a perfect prosecutor and a genius and no one was going to expect anything less from her.

The thought made her feel dizzy, and in a dire need of air. She didn't lose her composure – she _never_ would – but she was walking quicker than it might have been necessary on her way outside, and she found herself breathing the cold air as if she had been suffocating.

"My, Franny, how you've grown! I almost didn't recognize you back there! Been swimming lately?"

The unfamiliar and insufferably cheerful voice that reached her ears sounded somewhat eerie to her, as though there was something lurking beneath the cheerfulness. Then again, _who_ could sound like that after witnessing an execution? She frowned and turned to face the voice's owner. "Mr. Gant," she said flatly. She wasn't surprised at all – he was the only fool would use such a foolish nickname for her. She regretted not having brought her whip along that day… but even if she did, she wasn't sure she'd use it on him.

Damon Gant chuckled and clapped his hands once. "Oh, you recognize me, then. And Manny said you probably didn't even remember me," he chuckled again before finally sobering. "My condolences, by the way. I worked along with your father for decades, you know – a genius, he was. And I also had the occasion to work with your mother briefly, before she was taken from us. She was quite brilliant, too, with such a promising career ahead. I swear the forensics department has never been the same after her murder," he shook his head with a sigh before his green, green gaze rested on her again, and for a moment before he grinned again she felt frozen on the spot. "But oh well. I'm sure you'll do an excellent job, too. A prodigy, aren't you? There has to be a reason why he was so proud of you."

"Was he?" she said coldly without even realizing it for a moment, more to herself than to him. Had Manfred von Karma, the perfect prosecutor, ever truly been satisfied of anything he did? Had he ever been truly proud of her, of _anyone_?

Gant clicked his tongue and shook his head. "Ah, Freddie, Freddie, _Freddie_. How like him. He just never gave anyone much satisfaction, eh? But just between you and me-" he paused before grinning again. "Ah, I kind of forgot we don't have to worry he find out… er…" he cleared his throat under Franziska's annoyed glare. "Anyway. I think there was this one time he took a, er, vacation to let his shoulder heal, yes?"

Franziska gritted her teeth, inwardly cursing that foolish fool for foolishingly bringing _that_ up now. The knowledge he hadn't paid that visit and hadn't stayed that long for her still stung far more than it should have. "What of it?" she asked stiffly.

Gant shrugged. "Oh, well, once he got back, any time I asked how you were doing he would say you were doing 'perfectly'. As the perfect child you were," he smirked. "That was his wording, anyway. I must say that I wasn't at all surprised when you passed the bar at thirteen."

Yes, Franziska supposed _that_ had been on achievement no one else had managed yet, – her father himself had passed the bar at twenty-five, like most other people. The thought made her smirk widen just a little, but it still wasn't enough to make her forget what the real reason of that visit, the longest one he had ever granted her, had truly been. "I still was not the reason of that one _vacation_ ," she heard herself saying, and she truly realized she had said that aloud only when Gant gave her another piercing stare before speaking again.

"Yes, we all know why he needed a vacation so badly now, I guess. But you know what, Franny? I always wondered why he stayed away for so much time."

She shrugged. What was that foolish fool trying to get at? "Wonder no more. As you said yourself, he needed to let his shoulder heal where no one would notice his wound or connect it to the DL-6 incident."

He clicked his tongue, wiggling his finger at her. "Ah, but I _still_ do wonder. I've been a cop for a long time and saw my fair share of bullet wounds. And you know what?" he said added "good old Manny stayed in Germany weeks more than the time it would have taken for such a wound to heal more than enough for him to come back without raising suspicion. Guess he had _another_ reason to stay there, eh? Either that, or he was _that_ much of a perfectionist. But oh well," he shrugged and turned to walk away "guess we'll never know."

He was gone before the actual meaning of his words truly sank in Franziska's usually receptive mind, and maybe it was better that way – for the second time in the last few weeks she didn't know what to think or say and she would have hated being caught speechless by such a foolish fool.

And for the first time that day, she was _surprised_.

All of a sudden she realized, truly _realized_ , that she had just lost her father. She shivered, suddenly feeling cold, but she was quick to blame the cold wind rushing over her for that.


	3. Ocean

Damon Gant had never thought he would see the day he would be asked if he had any last wish, but one thing life had taught him – and _his_ life, while not exceptionally long, had been very eventful – was that no matter how carefully you plan everything, things can turn out the most unexpected ways. That one lesson had been the last one he got and most likely the last one he'd ever get, but the fact his own execution was not even a week away was no reason to not learn it well.

In any case, after a moment of amused silence upon being asked for something as melodramatic as a last wish, his reply had been probably the one anyone would have expected from him – a last swim. "In all honesty, Udgey," he had said when his old friend had asked him if there really wasn't anything else he wished to do. "I can't think of anything else at all. A good swim, old boy, just a good swim and I'm good to go. Why don't you join me?"

The judge had declined his invitation – no surprise there, he had never been much for swimming himself – but he had promised he would do anything he could to grant him that wish. That wasn't a surprise either: they had been good friends after all, and good friends do favours to each other. As he had expected, Udgey did press the right buttons: the night before his execution a public pool would be opened so that he could have it all for himself for a hour and have his last swim. He would of course be surrounded by armed guards all the time, but he couldn't say he minded.

Too bad they couldn't join him in the pool, Gant mused with a sigh as he glanced at the calendar on the wall: his execution was scheduled for the following day, meaning that he would get his last swim that night. He couldn't wait: not only the lack of a pool in prison was rather bothersome, but the other prisoners had the odd tendency to snap when he asked them if they had been swimming lately. Such unpleasant folks.

Not that he interacted much with other prisoners: a good number of the guys in there were in there because of _him_ to begin with, which meant they weren't likely to become bowling buddies anytime soon. Thy took it too personally. It didn't really bother him that much, but sometimes he wouldn't have minded getting to-

"Damon Gant," one of the guards called out from outside his cell, snapping him from his thoughts. "You have a visitor. In the visitor room," he added, as if he even needed to specify.

He raised an eyebrow. "A visitor? And who may that be?" he asked. He had kind of lost count of the people he had spoken with since when he had been convicted, but he was pretty sure there was no one he had left to speak with, aside from… but of course, who else?

He sighed, preventing the guard from even answering with a wave of his hand. "Ah, she really shouldn't have turned back. She should have kept going," he said, standing up and straightening the jacket of his orange prison suit – at least it was a colour he was used to wear, and he liked to think it suited him. "Oh well. Maybe she needed a last chat anyway," he added as he walked out of the cell and, following a rather nervous guard – what was that guy sweating about anyway? – entered the visitor's room.

The first thing he took notice of as he sat and looked at the person behind the glass screen was that she was dressed in civilian clothes – no prison suit, no fancy Chief Prosecutor uniform anymore. "Good to see you got the house arrest in the end," he said, leaning back on his seat. "Hope it didn't take you too much paperwork to arrange this little visit."

Lana Skye stared at him for a few moments, as if trying to read him – but she couldn't, she never really could – before drawing in a deep breath. "Why?" she just asked, clearly determinated not to let him start any kind of mind game.

Gant raised an eyebrow. "You might want to be a little more specific, my dear. That covers up pretty much anything from 'why Earth is round' to 'why does toast always land butter side down'. And if it's about why I killed Neil, framed Ema and blackmailed you, then you should pay more attention when I speak. I already told everyone and their lawyer why I did it. For myself. Having the Chief Prosecutor under my thumb meant that I could-"

"I already know that much," Lana cut him off, and despite the anger in her voice it was clear knowing it didn't mean she understood. "I still can't wrap my mind around the fact you ever _could_ do something like that, but it's not what I'm here to ask. I know you wouldn't give me a different reply from the one you already gave."

He shrugged. "My reply may not be satisfactory, I'll give you that, but it's nothing but the plain, simple truth," he answered, his eyes finally meeting hers. "But let's not digress. What are you here to ask?"

Lana scowled and reached to take something from her purse – a sheet of paper. She slammed it against the glass so that she could see it clearly, and it only took him a glance to recognize his own signature at the bottom of a long confession – the confession in which he took most of the blame for the forged evidence, claming that he and he alone had forged it and that Lana Skye had only approved the result blindly, never actively tampering with anything. So that was that their little chat would be about. He should have known.

"Why did you do this?" Lana hissed.

Gant chuckled. "Now, now, what's wrong with that?" he asked. "You'll get a much lighter sentence with that – it's also the reason why you got the house arrest right now, isn't it?"

"This isn't the point, Damon."

He smirked. "You hadn't used my name in a while, Lana," he pointed out, causing her to bite her tongue, clearly cursing herself for her slip. "But pray tell, what _is_ the point? All I see is an admission of guilt signed by _moi_ ," he gestured at himself with a gloveless hand, "that mostly gets you off the hook."

Lana straightened herself. "Do I even need to tell you?" she retorted. "First off, what's written here is a lie, and you know it."

"A lie? As far as I can recall, that's how things went. I dealt with the evidence, and you approved it like a good little girl."

"Not always," she said, more to herself than to him, her gaze a little unfocused. "Not _always_. Sometimes…"

"Pah!" Gant waved his hand dismissively. "I could count the times you actually _did_ anything on five fingers. Those were exceptions, not the rule. They don't count."

"Not for you, maybe. But they do count for me."

My, honest people really could obsess over all kinds of stuff. "And what would you do about it, Lana? Claim you're guilty for something I already confessed doing all by myself? With the knack you have showed for taking the blame for crimes you didn't commit, I doubt you'd be believed. And why would you do that?" he asked, looking at her with plan curiosity now. "The sooner you get off the hook, the sooner you'll be able to be there for your sister again. I thought that was what mattered the most to you."

Lana stayed silent for a few moments. "It is," she said quietly, "but I can't forget what I did."

"You did what you had to do. I didn't leave you much choice now, did I?"

She raised her gaze to meet his, but she was only able to stare in his eyes for a few moments before turning her attention back to the confession. "No. You didn't."

"Jolly good, then," he laughed and clapped his hands once. "The blame is mine, and I take it fully. There, see? All's fine. You should be concerning yourself with what you'll be doing with your future, my dear. I hope you'll get some time for a good swim. Maybe if you get off the hook by this summer, yes?"

Lana said nothing.

"Hmm," Gant leant back on his sigh and sighed, his fingers playing with the forelock falling between his eyes. "My dear, I'm afraid coming here was not good for you."

She didn't try to argue on that point. "If I can get at least one answer out of you, it will have been worth it."

"I see. There is something else you wanted to ask about the confession, isn't there?"

"Yes," she raised her gaze to meet his again, and this time she didn't turn away. "Why did you write this to begin with? Whether it says the truth or not, why taking the blame so that I can go free?"

"Why not?"

Lana's fists slammed against the glass, her eyes suddenly ablaze. "Answer to me, Gant! Why would you want to help me _now_?" she demanded to know.

So _that_ was the question that actually kept her awake at night? He should have guessed, really. "I didn't have any reason not to."

"No reason?" despite her valiant efforts, her voice wasn't as firm as she had probably wished it would be. "No _reason_? After what you did to me, to _everyone_ , why not finish your work and bring me down with you?"

Now it was his turn to be confused, if just for an instant. "Bring you down with me?" he asked, a little startled, then he realized what the problem really was – as usual, Lana could not separate what was personal from what had been nothing but business to him. She simply couldn't wrap her mind around the fact he had used her the way he had because it benefited him, not because he had anything against her. She couldn't realize that it had been possible for him to use her for his own ends while being _truly_ fond on her – or maybe she could, and the thought scared her. "Why should I? I have no reason to. This was always about me and my goals, never about doing any harm to you. Or anyone."

"But-" she began, but Gant cut her off by clicking his tongue disapprovingly.

"Lana, Lana, _Lana_. I'm disappointed in you, really. Do you really think I'd want to hurt you just _because_ , having no reason to do so? That I would have killed Neil and blackmailed you because I had anything against him, or you, or your sister? You're wrong. It was nothing personal, never; had anyone else but you been involved, nothing would have changed. I had my chance to use someone to control the Chief Prosecutor office and seized it, no matter who would be involved. Not that I wasn't fond on you, my dear – I still am – but what can I say, I have my priorities in order."

She stared at him for a few moments, her jaw working quickly, but she managed to keep her voice reasonably firm as she spoke again. "It may not have been anything personal to you earlier, but now that you were caught, and I helped them to catch you…!"

He shrugged. "You did what was best for you and you little sister in the end. So what? I would have done the same, and I'm just about the last person who could lecture you about putting your own interests before someone else's. In life you sink or swim, and I'm a good swimmer, but sometimes you just know even trying is useless – I may have lost my little game, but you know very well that I'm no sore loser. No grudge on this side. Why the confession? Because with two murders on my shoulders, I was sure to get the death penalty before my trial even started, no matter what I did or said. You surely know I'm due to be executed tomorrow. I'd get no advantages in bringing you down with me, and thus I have no reason to. So I wrote the admission of guilty whose copy you have in your hands. It's simple as that," he concluded, holding up his hands for a brief moment before resting them on the desk in front of him again, his eyes locking with hers as he waited for her reaction. He didn't have to wait for too long.

"Is it all?" she finally asked quietly.

"It is. It may not be the answer you were expecting, but it's the truth."

"That's fine. It's the first time in years you tell me the truth. Maybe the first time ever," she said a little bitterly. "And I honestly don't know what kind of answer I could be expecting from someone like you, Damon Gant. You know what's the worst thing about this?" she leant forward, her forehead almost touching the glass that separated them, and Gant could see the angry tears she was fighting so hard to hold back. He had seen her in a similar state of distress only few times, and a long time ago he would have reached to dry her eyes himself; even now, for a moment, his right hand twitched. "The worst thing," she went on, "is knowing that you don't hate me. _That_ would have made me feel better than knowing I simply didn't matter _enough_ for you not to use me to your advantage, ready to throw me away like some used tissue later."

He shook his head. "That's how things are. It wasn't about you at all: it's that no one mattered enough not to be expendable," he said truthfully. "Not Neil, not Bruce, not Jake, not Angel, not Ema. And not even you."

Lana stared at him for a few more instants before regaining her composure and pulling back. "I see. And to think I deluded myself into thinking that I knew you, that I had really taken a good look at what was beneath the surface. But even after you started blackmailing me, I had still seen nothing. Not until last month. And what I saw is something dark and cold that I can't believe I didn't see there before."

He gave a somewhat wistful smile, the memory of a summer day only a handful of years earlier stirring somewhere in the back of his mind. "I made sure no one could possibly tell. I told you, Lana, one can't see very far under the waves. You can only hope that no sharks are lurking and no storm is brewing. And I also warned you not to rely too heavily one me. But you couldn't possibly know what I meant, could you?"

She wiped her eyes angrily. "Well, no way I'll forget it anytime soon now," she said bitterly, getting up from her seat, but she didn't turn to leave. She stayed silent for a few moments, looking down at him. "Don't you have any regret at all?" she finally asked, her voice barely audible.

Gant shook his head. "I'm afraid not," he said softly. "You should leave now, and concern yourself with what to do from now on. And if you want some friendly advice, do not turn back as you leave."

And she didn't: one more glance and she turned away, walking to the door with quick steps. She stopped on the doorway and spoke again, but without turning. "Isn't there anything else you'd want to say?"

"Yes. I left the sailboat to you. It's yours. You can use it, sell it or sink it, as you wish. Just so you know."

There was a moment of startled silence before she nodded. "Fine," was all she said, still not turning. A glimpse of a red muffler was the last thing he saw before the heavy door closed. That was going to be the last he saw of her, and he knew it, but he wondered if that was the last she had seen of _him_. Maybe not; it depended on whether she'd decide to attend to his execution the next day. He couldn't quite tell if that would do her any good or not. Maybe it would: it would help her putting the past, and him, behind once for all.

Other than that, it wasn't really relevant whether she saw him again the next day or not: what mattered was that she had, in the end, gotten to see what actually was beneath the surface and could live to remember it.

* * *

**June 2014**

A proper vacation was something detective Lana Skye hadn't had in a long, long time, even before attending the law school and later joining the Criminal Affairs Department – the last one she could recall being two weeks in Europe back when her parents were alive and Ema was little. But then they were gone, and when you become a surrogate mother to a little child when you're not even old enough to drink beer legally and you live on your parents' life insurance while studying law, luxuries such as vacations are not something you can indulge yourself into.

That was why, as much as she loved her work, she cherished those rare weekends when, with not much going on at the Department and with Ema off to some friend's house for a few days, she could just pack a few things and head for the beach. She had never truly been _that_ much of a beach person, really, but Damon loved it and in time it had become some kind of routine for them spending those rare weekends off they got together on the beach. A pleasant routine, with her relaxing under the sun and Damon either splashing in the water or trying to convince her to join him. After resisting for just a little while, she would always join him.

Granted, she hadn't exactly been comfortable with the idea at first: the first time they had headed for the beach together, after he had simply assumed that the fact they both had a free day meant they were going to spend it together, she had felt awkward around him despite his jovialness, or maybe exactly because of that. Damon Gant was nothing short of a legend in the Department, and if she had grown past her initial nervousness while working side to side with him it had taken her a little more time to start being comfortable around him in a different setting other than the office or crime scenes. But in the end she had, around the same time he had finally convinced her to call him Damon rather than Gant.

And later on, when things had developed further, he had showed her one of his most prized possessions with the smile of a boy showing off his brand new car – a sailboat. "I bought this baby when I got my first raise, and even that way it took a few pay checks. But it was worth it. It's still as good as new," he had told her, helping her to get on board for the first of what would turn out to be many times.

And today was another of those times. Lana had to admit Gant couldn't have picked a better day: there wasn't one single cloud in the sky – good thing she had brought sunscreen – and while calm the sea had enough waves for Damon to enjoy the ride; she could tell that much from the glint in his eyes as he glanced ahead before taking a swig from a can of beer he kept near the rudder.

Lana chuckled as she ducked under the boom and went to sit on the left side of the sailboat. "You're not supposed to drink while you drive, you know."

Damon laughed and put the can down, his other hand still on the rudder. "That only counts for cars, but not a bad try."

"I wouldn't be surprised if it counted for boats, too."

"Ho ho, someone forgot to do their homework," Damon smiled, a smile that lit his eyes, though his glee seemed to be more due to the sight of the waves rolling gently against the boat than to her remark.

Lana shrugged. "Sailing is not my field, it's yours. Enlighten me."

He took another look at the waves – there was something dreamy in his gaze for a moment, or maybe it was just an impression – before turning to her with a wide grin. "To be honest, my dear, I have absolutely no idea."

She crossed her arms. "Then you can hardly blame me for not doing my homework, can you, chief detective?" she asked. "You're coming off as such a bad citizen right now."

Damon chuckled and reached to draw her closer, as though wanting to speak in her ear, but it was against her cheek that he pressed his mouth. "Guilty as charged," he almost purred against her skin, and Lana could feel a smug grin curling his lips before he pulled back and put his hand back on the rudder. "But, to your heart's content, we're just about to drop the anchor. Stay down while I lower the sail."

Lana complied gladly: she rather liked resting back under the sun and watching him lowering the sail and throwing the anchor off board once the boat had stopped. She took a look around to see that they were completely alone, no other boats being in sight and land being too far to even think about swimming all the way from ashore. She liked it that way: it made it so much easier forgetting about anything and anyone else for at least a few hours. Her gaze fell on the deep blue water below, on the small waves gently breaking against the side of the boat, glimmering under the sun. She liked resting on the boat like that, with the sun warming her skin and the waves rocking the boat.

"Well, the ocean isn't meant to be just looked at, don't you agree?"

She smiled turned to see he had removed that ridiculous Hawaiian shirt he had been wearing and discarded it on the floor, clearly eager to just jump in the water. Her gaze fell on the broad shoulders, the toned chest and the tanned skin – it was hard to think he was… well, over three decades her senior. Odd. Sometimes she felt as though she was the old one between them. A matter of attitude, he had said with a laugh once.

"Aren't you coming?" Damon asked, holding back from jumping off board to look at her almost hopefully. "The water looks perfect. It will be fun"

"Maybe later," she said, reaching for the sunscreen, but she could never take it – she was suddenly snatched by strong arms, and she had only a second to realize what was going to happen before she was thrown off board and hit the water. It wasn't cold, but her skin was still warm from the sun and the sudden change of temperature came as a slight shock. Still, there was a part of her that felt like shaking her head at her own naivety – she should have known Damon would have done something like that, unwilling as he was to take a no as an answer. No matter how much older than her he was, right now he was behaving like a little kid dragging his big sister along to play, regardless what said big sister had to say about it.

Lana emerged coughing a little, her hair plastered on her face and neck, and she was about to yell at him never to do it again when a sudden splash a few feet from her covered her voice, some splashes hitting her, though not too many – Damon was good at diving. She brushed her hair off her face and turned to glare at him, but her protests turned into a laugh as he saw him getting back to surface next to her, his tan skin glistening and usually carefully kept hair sticking on his face, covering his eyes.

"I told you it would be fun," he pointed out as he reached to brush back his hair, his eyes glinting with amusement, his rumbling laughter joining hers.

She forced herself to stop laughing. "How rude, chief detective, snatching women from under the sun to throw them off board. And here I thought you were a gentleman when I met you," Lana said in mock hurt, splashing him a little, and he gave her yet again that Cheshire Cat grin of his.

"I can't recall claming to be a gentleman," he said. His arm reached for her underwater and wrapped around her waist, drawing her closer. As always when she met that green, green gaze, she felt her heart skipping a beat. "But I'm not rude either," he rumbled, their noses touching for a brief moment before he let her go, eye contact breaking, and Lana realized she had been holding her breath. "That's why I'm giving you the head start. Ten seconds, and I'll be coming after you. To the rock over there and then back to the boat. Deal?"

Lana pretended to be considering. "And what's in store for the winner?"

Damon threw back his head and laughed. She was pretty sure he would have clapped hadn't his hands been underwater. "Oh, you!" he said with a smirk once he stopped laughing. "You never do anything for the sake of fun, eh?".

"I do, that's the reason why I'm asking."

Damon blinked, apparently taken aback for a moment, then he smirked. "I see. I guess a little _prize_ can be arranged later on. So you had better start thinking, because I'm not going to lose. I never do."

That was true, and she knew it – she was a good swimmer, but Damon could swim as though he was born just to do that. Still, she raised an eyebrow. "You sound awfully confident, chief detective," she remarked.

"I wouldn't be giving you a head start if I weren't," he said smugly bowing his head slightly. "Ladies first."

She smiled back. "We'll see about that, Casanova. Get thinking as well," she said before approaching the boat so that she could bounce off the side and give herself a good boost. She faintly heard Damon chuckling, or thought she did, but she barely acknowledged it: she just swam as quickly as she could, trying to keep her moves and breathing steady so that she wouldn't run out of energy too soon. Not that there was much of a point in doing so – she knew very well Damon would catch up with her – but she could as well make him work a little to do that.

And really, it did take him longer than usual to catch up with her this time: he usually surpassed her before the first lap was even over, but this time, as she flipped in the water to kick off the rock and head back to the boat, while very close he was still in slight disadvantage. Even though he eventually made it back to the boat a handful seconds before she did, it was a rather satisfying result.

"I made you work for it this time, didn't I?" she asked, still panting but with a self-satisfied smirk on her face. Damon laughed and reached to draw her closer, his other arm supporting them against the side of the boat so that they wouldn't sink now that they were barely moving. He was panting a little himself.

"I wouldn't have had it any other way," he said, his forehead resting on hers again. She found herself unable to tear her gaze away, as she always was when he looked at her like that. "Mind if I take my prize now?"

She gave no actual reply and simply tilted up her face so that he could press his mouth on hers and…

" _Ow_!"

Lana blinked and pulled back as he yelped against her lips. She glanced up at him worriedly. "What?"

He made a face. "Get back on board."

"But-"

"Trust me on this. Let's get back on board."

She was still perplexed, but she did as he said and climbed back on the boat, immediately followed by him. She turned to ask again what was that about, but she got her answer right away as she saw something floating a few feet from the boat, something that for a moment she almost mistook as plastic wrappings – jellyfish. "Did you get stung?" she asked, turning to Damon.

Damon – who was currently twisting a little in the attempt to check out something on his back – chuckled. "Good call, detective Skye. Brilliant, aren't we?"

Lana rolled her eyes. "Let me take a look."

"Are you considering a career change?" he asked with an amused smirk. "It could be a good idea. You'd look delightful in a nurse attire."

"Don't make me throw you off board," she jokingly threatened before making him turn to take a look at his back. There were a few long, reddening marks going from his lower to mid-back. It was nothing serious, but it had to sting. "Do you have some salve?"

"Sure. It's in the compartment under the rudder. Right next to the radio."

"Great. I'll go fetch it. You stay down."

"Yessir," he sighed dramatically before laying on the floor. Propping himself on his elbows, he glanced off board and brightened. "Looks like the current is dragging them away already. We could get to swim a little more before we head back."

Lana couldn't help but be amused by the comment before kneeling next to him and opening the tube with the salve. Damon hummed a little as she pressed a towel on his back to get the skin dry and began spreading the salve on the marks with light fingers. "You have a thing for taking care of others, eh? You really would make a great nurse. But you make an even better detective, so I take back my earlier suggestion about a career change."

"Good to know that," she said with a shrug before taking a look at the sea. "I hadn't even noticed them until I climbed back on the boat," she commented. She knew it wasn't uncommon for jellyfish to be dragged in that area by the waves, but the sea looked so peaceful and the water so nice that last thing she could have thought was that it could hide trouble.

As if guessing her thoughts, Gant chuckled. "The prettier it looks, the more dangerous it gets. Because you don't look beneath the nice, glimmering surface," he propped himself on his elbows again to glance off board as well. "But that makes it more fun, doesn't it? Not knowing what could be beneath," he added, and much to her surprise this time he sounded serious, almost thoughtful. "A jellyfish today, a shark tomorrow. C'est la vie."

"I should hope not even you are obsessed with swimming enough to jump in the sea with sharks around," Lana joked, but there was something that made her slightly uncomfortable in his serious tone. While he managed to be intimidating even while being apparently all laughs and jokes – it was almost hard to believe just how imposing he could be when leading an investigation or interrogating a suspect, and more than once he hadn't even had to ask much, the culprits caving in and spilling the truth under his piercing gaze – she had grown used to it; such seriousness, on the other hand, was unusual. She didn't really know what to expect.

Damon clicked his tongue almost disapprovingly, and when he spoke again he sounded as playful as always; still, she could detect something different in his voice even now. "But, my dear, there are God knows how many feet of water beneath us. How do you know what's under the surface? For all you knew there could be a dozen sharks right beneath us the moment we jumped-"

"I didn't exactly _jump_ ," she pointed out, barely able to hide the discomfort she was feeling now.

He laughed. "Fair enough. In any case, my point stands: for all we knew, there could be sharks anywhere. It could have been something more dangerous than jellyfish to get here. And you sure didn't jump right back on the boat the moment you touched water," he paused. "How come you felt so safe?" he asked innocently.

Lana stayed silent for a few moments, startled, then she shrugged. "I could ask the same to you," she said, putting the salve away "put on your shirt for a while. Keeping the marks exposed to the sun might not be the best thing to do."

He shrugged, sitting up. "No need for that, I'll be just-" he trailed off as she held his shirt under his nose.

"Shirt. Now," she ordered.

He once again sighed dramatically. "What a slave driver," he muttered, but he did put the shirt back on before glancing at her with an amused look in his eyes. "Now, if I'm not mistaken, I asked something. What made you feel like the ocean would be safe? I can tell you it never is."

_You were in it_.

That reply almost made it to her lips, but she willed herself into keeping her mouth shut about it – it sounded just silly, she told herself… still, it was the closest thing to the truth. Damon Gant had been a reassuring presence to her for a long time now, the only truly reassuring presence she had had in her life since her parents' death; no matter in what shady corner of Los Angeles they were or what kind of criminal they were working against, she just _knew_ that as long as he was there she would be safe.

"Lana."

His voice snapped her from her thoughts, and a moment later he was pulling her in his arms and on the floor with him. "Careful with your back," she said mechanically.

"Yes, my fair lady," he chuckled against her still damp hair before resting on his side, his arms still around her, and Lana allowed herself to relax again, her forehead resting on his chest. He smelled of salt, and ocean. She shut her eyes as he felt his hand running through her hair, tucking it behind her ear. There were a few moments of silence before he spoke again. "Sometimes, Lana, I think you shouldn't rely this much one me."

She opened her eyes again and pulled back to look at his face, taken aback. "What?"

He smiled, and he suddenly was a lot more like himself again. "Well, I'm no kid, am I? I could very well be your father. And if I had a kid as a teen and this kid did have a kid as a teen, guess I could as well be your grandfather as well. And immortal I'm not."

Lara couldn't help but laugh, the thought he might have lied on the true meaning of what he had just said not even occurring to her. "Wait, so all of this was an overly complicated way to let me know you're a weird old man? As if I didn't know that before, grandpa," she said, and Damon's rumbling laugher joined hers so quickly that she didn't take notice of the odd look he gave her for a moment.

* * *

**September 1994.**

" _You guys are so easy to deceive."_

_Detective Damon Gant sighed, leaning on the side of the boat, his eyes not leaving the face of the man on the floor. It was night, but the moon was full and allowed him to see his terrified eyes staring up at him from above the makeshift gag that covered most of his face. He wasn't even trying to scream or free himself anymore: he had clearly come to realize that his binds – the binds that tied him tightly to a large brick – would not give in, and that on a boat in the middle of the sea no one would hear him even if he could get rid of that gag and scream. He had to know he was staring at death in the face now, and that death had envy-green eyes._

_Gant shook his head disapprovingly, the sea breeze gently ruffling his black hair. He had recently noticed a slight spray of silver appearing on his temples, but he didn't really mind. It didn't look too bad. He absentmindedly toyed with the lock of hair that fell on his forehead. "You see an uniform and you trust whoever is wearing it. Just like that. Ever heard anything about a wolf in sheep's clothing?" he said, wrinkling his nose a little. "A lot like the ocean – it looks nice, doesn't it? But it can be merciless. Still, nine times out of ten people don't stop to think about that and dive right in the water. And then act surprised any time something bad happens," he hummed some tune and sat on the floor, his hands folded behind his head as he absentmindedly gazed ahead._

" _Some don't even live to tell what happens for being too trusting, you know. Much like yourself now. Heck, I wouldn't be here myself if – oh, want to hear a story? It's not like you're in any rush, are you?"_

_The man immediately shook his head, confusion now mixing with fear._

_Gant laughed and clapped. "Oh, good! It's so hard to get people to listen these days. Sometimes it looks like you've got to tie them up before they listen – oh, wait," he coughed a little. "Anyway. Where was I? Oh, right. The story," he turned to glance to the lights coming from the shore, so far that all he could see was a faint glow. "You know, not very far from here there's this beach. I went there as a kid, all summers. A nice place, have you ever been there? No? Pity. Anyway, I had friends over there, but they were a tad older than I. Like, say, thirteen. I was… ten, I think. We had this small inflatable dinghy-shaped toy we played with, though I liked it better when I got to swim without it. Now those were fun times, eh?" he chuckled._

_His captive hurriedly nodded, as though afraid Gant would harm him if he didn't._

" _But you now how the saying goes, don't you? All fun and games until somebody loses and eye. Though something more was lost that day." Gant scratched his cheek. "We go on the beach this one day to see that the waves are higher than usual. Not too much, mind you, just enough to look fun. And challenging. I wanted to get in so badly but oh boy, didn't my mother almost yank my arm off my shoulder to hold me back!" he chuckled fondly. "She barred me from getting in the water. I wasn't glad about that, mind you, having to stay ashore while I watched the other kids having fun with the dinghy thing was pretty annoying. But she was right, you see. She knew better than anyone else. Because at some point a wave higher than the rest was all that it took for them to fall in the water. And one of them didn't resurface."_

_There were a few minutes of silence, the gentle sound of rolling waves all that could be heard._

" _He was a good swimmer, too," Gant finally went on. "Not as good as I was, but still pretty good. But the current was much too strong in that point, or maybe he hit his head against something when he fell in the water and lost consciousness. Either way, the current did drag him away, and his body was found only that evening. Well, part of it. A shark had taken the rest. And you know what?" he stared straight in the man's eyes. "There was nothing seemingly dangerous about that situation. They were close enough to the beach. The weather was good. The waves weren't that high. The sea looked pretty good, really. But it was still merciless, even more so while so inviting. They didn't stop one second to think there could be something dangerous beneath that surface. The same way you didn't stop one second to think how odd it is for a detective wanting to meet someone in secret at this time of the night – you saw the badge and didn't bother to look past that. I'm afraid this is the kind of mistake neither the ocean nor I are likely to forgive. You will not resurface either," he finished, getting back on his feet._

_The man stared at him for a few more moments, then he seemed to snap out of some sort of trance and frantically tried to free himself once again, no matter how useless his attempts would be, desperate sounds leaving his gagged mouth._

" _Oh, don't look at me like that. I wouldn't have had to play the big bad wolf in sheep's clothing wolf if you weren't so stupid to get in the way. It's nothing personal, but you really asked for it. Decisive witness for the defence, eh? You wouldn't have stepped forward had you known to what lengths Manny is willing to go for a guilty verdict, I bet."_

_The man whimpered pitifully, and Gant's gaze softened. "Oh well. No use in crying over spilt milk. It's not like it's your fault anyway – you only wanted to be a good citizen, didn't you, Mr. Meekins? Yes, you're one of those guys who want to do the right thing. You were just unlucky enough to witness something that would make the guilty verdict impossible for Fredo to get. He needs you out of the way now, and I… ah, well, it's such a fruitful cooperation we have. I could be promoted soon if things keep going well. It would be a pity wasting an opportunity like this. Think of the things I could do as the chief detective – I could protect the city better, no? Make it a better place for, say, your kid. I heard you just became a father, didn't you?"_

_The man's eyes widened even more with horror, and Gant quickly shook his had. "No, no, you got me all wrong!" he protested. "Who do you think I am? No one will go after your kid. Or your wife. They have nothing to do with this mess, do they?"_

_Meekins frantically shook his head. Gant laughed and clapped once. "There, see? No danger for them. Jolly good. Well, at least for them," he scratched the back of his neck for a moment before brightening again. "Tell you what – I'll make sure little Mickey is looked after, okay?"_

_A soft sob was all that left his captive._

" _Look, it's no fun on this side either," Gant sighed before finally reaching to take the gun – another agent's gun, just in case the body and the bullet in it were ever retrieved. Unlikely, but you can never know. He took an old towel and wrapped it around the barrel to muffle the sound as much as he could: there was no one in miles that could hear anything, but better safe than sorry._

_Stephen Meekins shut his eyes tightly as Damon Gant's shadow hid the moon from his sight._

_The sound of the gunshot was so muffled that, had anyone heard it, it could have been mistaken for one of those poppers kids liked so much. The splashing sound of something hitting the water a minute later was almost louder. After that there were a few minutes of silence, only broken by the sound of waves and the splashing sound of the bucket that was thrown in the water to collect some water. Someone could ask questions upon seeing a sailboat with blood on its floor at the docks after all._

_After several more minutes of silence, the sailboat finally moved, ocean breeze lifting the sails, its owner whistling a little as he headed back to the shore._

_The ripples caused by the passage of the boat merged with the waves and soon vanished, no trace of what had taken place there remaining._

_Ocean is good at claming lives and keeping secrets._

* * *

While the pool was a far cry from the ocean, Gant had still enjoyed the swim immensely; it would be the last one in his life after all, so why not enjoy it? Granted, the fact none of the guards watching over him as he swam had wanted to join in had been a little disappointing, but oh well. Can't have it all.

All things considered, Gant was in a relatively good mood as he sat on the electric chair – he was _sure_ there was still the chance for the sentenced to choose the means of the execution, and he had though he could as well go out with a bang – and glanced at the mirror in front of him, faintly wondering who was sitting on the other side, and if Lana had come to see his execution. Then again, it didn't truly matter. He let out a low hum as the executioner began strapping him on the chair, ignoring someone's dull voice reading aloud the crimes for which he was being executed… as if he didn't know it.

"Say, have you been swimming lately?" he asked the executioner. The man paused, but he didn't seem _too_ surprised – that was Damon Gant after all.

"No. Can't swim," he finally replied briefly, avoiding Gant's gaze as he finished strapping him to the chair.

"Damon Gant," the same dull voice called out "do you have any last words?"

Gant ignored it. "Oh, pity," he said, still glancing at the man who had now stepped back to take the black hood that would cover Gant's head. "But you could learn, no? It's never too late, or so they say."

"I'll… consider it, I guess," was the uneasy reply.

"Oh, good. Have a good swim on my behalf once you learn, eh?" Gant said, his gaze brightening, and he only frowned a little as the fakest cough he had ever heard reached his ears. He turned to see the man who had been reading his sentence aloud, a small man with greying hair, glancing at him.

"Mr. Gant, if you don't have any last words…"

"Funny you'd say that while interrupting a conversation," Gant sighed, the fact it had been a rather one-sided conversation not even occurring to him. "But no, I'm pretty sure I'm done here."

The man nodded at the executioner, who stepped forward and put the hood over Gant's head. That annoyed him a bit – it would sure mess with his hair – but then again, he thought has his head was immobilized as well, it didn't really matter now, did it? He almost chuckled at his own vanity, a reaction that had probably startled the executioner. He knew he was probably supposed to be scared, but he really saw no reason to be. He had witnessed enough executions to know it was a quick and rather clean matter, and he wasn't too worried about what could come next since his approach to the possibility of life beyond death had always been rather pragmatic: if there were nothing, everything would be over and he sure wouldn't be there to be sorry for it anymore. If, on the other hand, there would be _something_ awaiting him after he had exhaled his last breath… well, the thought was more thrilling than scary to him.

It would be like diving head first into the unknown, much like diving into the ocean without knowing what lay beneath. It could be dangerous, but it was still half the fun. Besides, he was a good swimmer. He wondered what could be lurking beneath _that_ surface. Oh well – he was about to find out, wasn't he?

The thought filled him with an odd anticipation, making him smile under the hood. When the executioner hit the switch, Damon Gant even mistook the buzzing of electricity for the sound of waves.

* * *

Dead.

Damon, dead.

Damon Gant, _dead_.

The thought kept echoing in Lana's mind without her actually being capable to process it, the sense of confusion and _loss_ only lessened by her numbness and inability to really realize what had happened before her eyes. He had loomed so large in her life for so long, larger than life itself. How _could_ Damon be dead?

Still, he was gone, truly gone. It was supposed to be good news for her, it was supposed to be a fresh start, but there was still so much he had left behind that she felt as though he wasn't really gone. There were the scars, of course, scars she didn't think would ever really fade from her soul. There was the admission of guilt she had read at least a million times now, the confession that while pretty much setting her free ironically bonded her to him once more. There were the memories – painful ones, but also memories of better times, memories she had once cherished and that not she loathed cherishing still.

And the sailboat, Damon's treasured sailboat. If he had told her the truth, it was hers now. She couldn't figure him out before, and she couldn't figure him out now. Why had he left the boat to her? She didn't want it; she didn't want to own _anything_ he had owned, especially not something she had such good memories of. She had wanted to get rid of it since the first moment she had known it would be hers, but now she didn't even want to think about it, let alone bring herself to do anything about it. She needed time, was all she could decide. Time to think, to start anew, to heal – and then she could maybe move on, and make her decision. It had been such a long time since last time she could make important decisions on her own.

Forgetting would be impossible, but she could still heal; she wanted to, and for the first time in years it was herself she was determinated to make everything alright for. And then maybe, just maybe, she would be able to recall everything Damon had once been to her – a partner, a mentor, a friend, a lover – without feeling that empty space aching cold inside of her.


End file.
